


Sugar, Spice and damn- Stiles' ass is nice

by cheweybaclava



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bakery, Fluff, Humor, Light Angst, M/M, Polish Stiles Stilinski, Romantic Derek, Socially Awkward Derek, too many jersey boys references, who likes polish pies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-20
Updated: 2016-09-20
Packaged: 2018-08-16 09:59:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8097802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cheweybaclava/pseuds/cheweybaclava
Summary: No one listens to Derek.Cora has her baby too early, Laura doesn't care about mess, Erica puts her nose in places it doesn't belong, and Stiles won't stop being so damn attractive. He's really thinking about moving to Europe.OrThe one where Derek's stuck helping in the family bakery, and the only bright side is the gorgeous angel who appears asking for a pie that no one has ever heard of.Of course Derek makes it.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so I don't actually know what this is. It was supposed to be like 5000 words long, and only one chapter, but I have no self control.  
> It's cute though.  
> Also- forgive Derek. He can't socialise like a normal human bean. Help him.
> 
>  
> 
> Unbeta'd. Please feel free to comment any mistakes or shit.

Flour flutters around Derek, flecks catching on the tip of his eyelashes, dusting his nose. Damn Laura, forgetting to close the bag. Derek can’t recall the amount of times he’s badgered her to keep it shut, in order to _prevent_ mess. Not that she’d listen. Not that she _ever_ listens.

Derek folds the over the seal of the bag, grumbling to himself. He glares at the sack of dandruff, because now it has literally embedded itself in his hair. 

Ah, the joys of the bakery. The joys of hell. Come on, it’s not like Derek wants to be here. Ha, far from.

 _It’s the least you can do, Der,_ Laura’s voice reprimands in his head. 

Technically, there’s a lot less he could do, but he chooses to be a considerately civil member of society and help out. Also, Laura threatened to brain him with a rolling pin.

So he’s been dumped here, what with half the bakery away visiting Cora at the hospital. Usually, at this time, he’d be busting down at the gym, or even helping with the house construction. But no. Instead, he’s stuck at Hale’s Bakery, covered in flour, wrestling a loaf of bread out the oven. 

Because Cora just _had_ to have her baby five weeks early. And her boyfriend just _had_ to be in Canada, working _._ And his sister just _had_ to suddenly decide that Derek would take over the bakery while the rest of the family visited her highness in the hospital, regardless of him having his own life.

“Hale! We need the pasties!” a voice calls from behind the window.

“The shop is literally called Hale, Erica. You’ll need to try and be a little more specific!” Derek yells back, wiping his hands on his “Kiss the Cook” apron and collecting the tray of freshly baked onion pasties, steaming away on the marble counter. Good Lord, if anything had ever smelled nicer. 

 _Stay strong, Derek._  

Don’t give in to the temptation of pastry. He makes his way over the cut window, maintaining his scowl. A blonde head pops up from behind the wall, grinning widely at Derek. 

“I know that, sunshine,” she says, taking the tray from him with a laugh, “If you haven’t forgotten, _I_ actually work here. Also, you’re the only Hale present. Everyone else is cooing over baby Erica,”

“It’s not called baby Erica,”

“ _She_ , Derek. The baby is human, not an object,” Erica retorts, handing the tray over to a lady waiting behind the counter. The woman counts out some change, burbling out a thanks, before thrusting it into Erica’s hand and dashing out the door, pasties still piping in her arms.

“What’s up with her?” Derek asks, leaning over the window, folding his arms.

“Beats me, someone must be dying,” Erica muses, “Now chop chop, back to work,”

“You’re not the boss here, Erica,” Derek grits, pushing off the window and back towards the worktop. 

“You keep telling that to yourself sweetie,” Erica calls back. Derek can hear her chuckling to herself. He ignores it.

 

Laura left specific instructions for Erica to keep an eye on the shop, with Derek in the back, while she was away. That most certainly did not mean Erica was in charge of his ass. His sister should’ve just called in Boyd to take Erica’s place. He was so much more tolerant than his wife. Also, the shop stood a much better chance of not burning down in Boyd’s hands, than it did in Erica’s. 

 

With a sigh, Derek continues to pack away the ingredients from this afternoon. Thank God the shop’s only open for another half hour. He’s not sure he can manage much more of Hale’s Bakery. Yeah, he practically grew up in this place, doing his homework on one of the cream coloured bar stools in the front, whilst his mom brought him plate after plate of swiss rolls. But now, as a newly college graduate, he has a proper job. An architectural firm back in New York. Bitchy clients, stressful projects, steady salary - the whole shebang. 

Just his luck that barely half a year into this smooth lifestyle, Cora goes into labour early and everyone freaks out. Laura had practically called the whole universe down to Beacon Hills to take their turn looking after Baby Hale™ and Cora. Derek’s pretty sure some Joe from Ireland is here. Obviously, he doesn’t blame Cora. She didn’t ask the Devil child to spring out of the womb ready for action. Derek’s handing that blame to Satan. 

But the doctors say they’re both doing fine, the baby’s healthy, buttercups and rainbows. Derek does not need to be here. Not that he exactly has a say in the matter.

 

“Derek!” Erica calls, “We’ve got trouble,”

Derek looks back, Erica’s head only just bobbing in view. “Any chance you know how to make a, um, a ya-boch-nick?” 

He’s not sure he heard her right “Any chance I know how to make a _what_?”

“It’s not _yabotshnik_ , Erica” an irritated voice grumbles behind the window, “It’s jabłecznik,”

Erica huffs, “Any chance you know how to make whatever the hell that was?”

“I don’t think he’s speaking English,” Derek states, walking over to the window. He smirks, folding his arms and rests them on the ridge, so he can lean out, “It might be better if you head over to Russi-” Derek starts, but stops mid-sentence.

Next to Erica, is possibly the most attractive man Derek has ever seen. Like, some angel fallen from Heaven. An angel dressed in plaid, of course. Tall, fair, unbelievably handsome. Brown tufts of hair sticking up in awkward spikes, large Bambi eyes, and a mouth so big, Derek can only imagine where it’s been. The guy glares at him, arms on his hips and _pissed_. 

“It’s not _Russian_ , asshole,” the angel snaps, “It’s fricken Polish. But it was stupid to think a guy like you would know that,”

“Guy like me?” Derek asks.

“You know. Guy like-” he gestures to Derek’s face, still frowning, “Too macho to distinguish one language from another, head too sexed up for _useful_ information”

 _Too sexed up?_ What the fuck does that even mean…?

“Judging a book, sweetie?” Erica asks brightly, “Didn’t daddy teach you better?”

“You’re telling me he’s single?” and _woah,_ where did that come from? But Erica simply tuts.

“Oh, honey, you know the situation,” she gives a sly grin, “We’ve only been over it a million and one times,”

“Yeah yeah, I know,” the guy grumbles, giving Derek a once over (does he think he’s being subtle?). Derek doesn’t miss the way his eyebrows raise appreciatively, but just as he gets a spark of hope that perhaps the attraction is mutual (and it usually is) the guys shakes his head. He’s probably straight. Which is a serious shame. Because Derek is checking him out too, and damn he’s better looking the more you look at him. Like, _really_ good looking. An actual angel. A Polish angel. Or a Polish beauty. Polish prince? Nah, Polish angel works best. Said angel is frowning again, and oh shit it’s probably because Derek hasn’t said anything and is just analysing the guy.

“So, um, what-what is it you wanted?” Derek asks again, praying he doesn’t stutter. He’s fairly positive his mind’s to entranced to even process what the hell he’s saying, because this guy is staring at him so intently, and his lips were moving so gracelessly, wet and pink and oh God, Derek is obsessed with a complete stranger’s mouth. He looks up, and this Polish angel is watching him watching his mouth. And now Derek is watching him watching him watching his mouth. He’s expecting some barbershop quartet to come in any minute, Jersey Boys playing on a stereo. Because he can’t take his eyes off of this angel. Derek isn’t sure whether or not there’s a puddle of drool on the floor. He’ll take his chances not to look down. Or at Polish angel’s mouth. Look at his eyes. His large, dazzling brown eyes…

“Dude?” Polish Angel interrupts, “Um, _service_ maybe?”

Erica bursts out laughing, and Derek can feel his cheeks burning up sightly. “Look kid, I’m coming out front. Gimme a sec,”

The guy sighs, clenching his teeth when Erica punches him on the shoulder, still giggling. Derek walks away from the window, and up to the door that connects the back of the shop to the restaurant.

“Oh Stilinski, I’ll pray for you, sweetie,” Derek hears her chuckling. Which is bad. Erica finding anything particularly funny is bad. Mainly because the roots of her humour are more often than not, linked to Derek’s misery. He pushes open the door, and goes up to the till. The guy’s checking his watch, tapping his foot restlessly. He looks up when Derek comes nearer, and sweet Jesus, is he even more attractive up close. All thoughts go flying out the window, and Derek will be damned if he’s ever fallen this hard for such stranger. 

“Look, I don’t want to waste your time,” Polish Beauty starts, “But there’s a birthday coming around, it’s barely a week away, and no fucking place in all of Beacon Hills does jabłecznik, so yeah, i’m pretty stressed. Then Lydia told me about Hale’s Bakery, and I have absolutely no idea how I forgot about you guys,” he tilts his head to Erica, “If the endless muffins showing up at the police station are anything to get by,”

She winks at him, and he sighs, but shifts his gaze back to Derek and continues, “What I need is a jabłecznik. It’s this weird kind of Polish apple pie, and your sister knows how to make them. She always drops one off, has done for the past ten years. But now Cora’s in hospital-”

“How do you know Cora?” Derek interrupts. He’s never heard about this guys before. Like, ever.

Erica rolls her eyes, “You’ll need to forgive him, Stiles. Derek hasn’t been home for like, thirty years. He’s having serious trouble remember Beacon Hills 101,” She spares a significant looks in his direction, “And also _majorly_ lacking in the social communication area,”

“Erica, I’m twenty three,” he growls, “And what the hell is a Stiles?”

“ _I’m_ a Stiles,” the guys looks up, like he can’t believe this is happening to him, “It’s my friggen _name_ ,”

“He’s Stilinski’s kid, Der,” Erica says, “You remember the Sheriff, right?”

Of course Derek remembers the Sheriff. The nice man who came in (used to come in) every Monday and bought the family pack of donuts, who always ruffled Derek on the head and told him to stay out of trouble. He showed Derek his revolver, how it worked, and that if he were ever to catch Derek with one he’d haul his ass to a prison cell, no questions asked. Derek’s still not sure if he was joking or not.

But as much as he remembers the Sheriff, Derek has near to no recollection of him having a son. Especially not one with a name as absurd as “Stiles”. He looks at him, trying desperately to place him in his cache of memories. 

Nothing surfaces.

“Nope,” Derek shakes his head, “Can’t say I remember you,”

“Well who I am isn’t relevant,” Stiles insists, “I need to know if you can make me a jabłecznik in one week’s time,”

And as much as Derek wants to place this guy (by please Derek means do his every fucking bidding), it’s not going to be possible. He doesn’t have the time to learn how to make a fucking pie in a week, whilst balancing managing the bakery, getting his _actual_ job projects completed, and figuring out how to get into Stiles’ pants.

“Sorry, kid,” Derek shrugs, “If it’s Cora you want, it’s Cora you should be asking for. I don’t even work here,”

Stiles’ eyebrows tense, and he opens his mouth like he’s about to say something, but then the life leaves him. It’s like someone just pulled out a plug or something, because his face falls, shoulders slumping, “Yeah- uh, of course. I- I get it it. Totally. Sorry, I’ve probably just wasted precious baking time,” he gives a strained smile, “Oh well, have fun making cakes or, whatever. I don’t know, I’m not much of a baker,”

“Stiles-” Erica says, but Stiles cuts her off with a wave off his head.

“Don’t sweat it Erica,” he says, “It was a long shot,” he looks at Derek, nodding quickly, “Well, thanks anyway. See you around,”

And with that, he turns on his heels and briskly walks out of the shop.

 

It’s as if everything goes silent. Stiles’ sudden change in character seems to have effected the whole atmosphere in the bakery. Everyone’s looking at Derek like he just kicked a puppy. He’s expecting a cricket to chirp somewhere in the background, or at least a ball of tumbleweed to roll by.

“Okay folks,” Erica says loudly, destroying the animated silence, “Shows over. Get back to your food or-” she makes a face at a guy called Greenberg sitting alone in a corner, “Whatever it is you’re doing with yourselves,” 

That seems to yank them out, and they all continue eating, but a few spare a disgruntled glance in Derek’s direction. He glares at them, then at Erica again.

“What was that all about?” he whispers somewhat harshly, feeling his cheeks heating up. That was totally unexpected. The guy had come in all sassy, feisty and gorgeous, but left like he’d watched Marley and Me repeatedly while a violin played in the background. 

Okay, maybe that’s a bit of stretch. Though someone definitely flipped a with somewhere in him, because his light was out in seconds. 

 

“Well, you probably want an explanation” Erica purses her lips at Derek, looking thoughtful, “But I’m not sure if you deserve one,”

And as much as Derek loves Erica (so much), right now is _not_ the time to be playing games with him. Because that was crazy, Derek has no fucking clue what happened, and he doesn’t need Erica sticking anything up his ass.

“What?” Derek asks, “W-why wouldn’t I deserve an explanation? I don’t even know what I did wro- _what’s going on_?” 

“That it, Derek!” Erica looks at him earnestly, “You have no _fucking_ idea what’s going on, because you’ve been MIA for almost ten _fucking_ years!”

“Erica, you know I-” 

“No Derek, you listen now,” she glares, “I’ve kept it in for the past month, but I can’t any longer. You. Have. Been. Acting. Like. A. _Child_ ,”

Derek crosses his arms, “Erica, you know I don’t like situations like this,”  
“I know you like running away,”

“I’m not running!”

“You _were_!” Erica flicks him on the head, “Derek, Cora just had a fucking _baby_. She asks for your help- for her _brother’s_ help, but you can’t even do that graciously. No, you sulk, and grumble and brood. Why? Because you are a child,”

“Erica,” Derek warns with a growl, but she ignores him, and carries on talking.

“They all needed you, Der. You _know_ that. But the first chance you get, you run off. You left all of us to deal with the remains of the fire, and galavanted off to New York,”

“I wasn’t needed,” Derek grits his teeth, “You know that,”

And he wasn’t. Forget needed, no one even _wanted_ him around. The last person you want to see is the guy who betrayed his own fucking family. The guy who got them all killed. Sure, he’s been to shrinks, therapists, you name it. They all simper, tell him it wasn’t his fault, he shouldn’t blame himself. 

But he knows the truth. Because as many times as Derek washes his hands, he can still see their blood staining his nails. No matter how metaphorical, it’s there. It’s there and it’s never going to leave. Though Erica’s not buying it, because she glares at him, and folds her arms over her chest.

“You know you’re lying to yourself,” Erica retaliates, teeth clenching, “But okay, whatever, you’ve got family issues- it’s cool. We all got ‘em. No biggie, work it out right? Still no reason to be a dick to Stiles,”

Derek gapes at this, “H-how was I being a dick to Stiles!?” 

She scoffs, “Like you really don’t remember him,”

“ _Yes Erica_ ,” Derek says, “ _I do not remember him_ ,”

Erica stops, and frowns, “Like, for real?”

“Oh my God,” Derek drags a hand over his face, “Do you want me to write it _down_ for you?”

She shakes her head, looking lost. 

“No, no,” she mutters, “I- I just, I can’t believe you don’t remember,”

“Was he important or something?”

“Well…” she shrugs, “It’s sort of a delicate situation,”

Derek folds his arms, and looks at Erica expectantly, “Try me,”

“Alright,” She nods, “So, around ten years ago, Claudia Stilinski died. Stiles and Cora were in the same grade, so your mom suggested for Cora to bake him a cake or some shit. I don’t know the details,” 

Now that is something Derek actually recalls, and he silently nods. Cora coming home, looking sad and her face tear stained. But Derek just assumed she had a bad day at school or something. His mom and her spoke for a while, then made a cake. It was how she got them smiling again. Baking. Cora and her made cakes, Laura loved crumble. Apple, pear, mixed tropical fruit. It was her special thing, and ‘always served with a smile’. Derek’s younger cousins, Ethan and Aiden, used to make identical cobblers with her. Didn’t matter of only one was upset. They both contributed equally. Must have been a twin thing or some shit. No one ever dared to question it. Whenever Derek was down, his mom made pancakes with him. Pancakes were Derek’s pick me up food. 

He hasn’t eaten one since the fire. 

“She made him that weird, apple monstrosity,” Erica continues, “And I guess it stuck. They’ve been doing ever since. So you get why he was all, _mopey,_ right?”

Derek can’t place Cora ever doing it again, but he wasn’t exactly as involved with his family then. Growing up distanced him. Kate drew him further away. The nearly separated him completely. He’s never come back to what he used to be. 

“You get why he wanted the pie?”

And Derek does. Part of him still sees it as being irrational. Stiles didn’t actually expect for him to agree and start whipping up a batch of apple pie on the spot, right? That’s ridiculous. 

Then there’s the other part of Derek. The other part of Derek that knows loss of love makes you do ridiculous things. Hope for ridiculous things. Maybe Stiles didn’t think Derek would’ve made him the pie. He most likely knew that it wasn’t going to happen. But just like every other human, he holds on to that unlikely string of hope woven through him. He holds on to the frayed memories of his mom, knowing that this is what can still connect him to her. That, Derek gets.

Because even though Derek refuses to eat a pancake, it doesn’t mean there isn’t a box of batter in the back of his pantry. 

 

“Yeah,” he says softly, “I get it,”

Erica worries her lip, and Derek can see her brain whizzing. He frowns.

“What? What is it?”

“Nothing, just,” she looks around, “I feel bad you two got off on the wrong foot. Stiles is a regular here. He hangs out with Isaac and Cora all the time. We always talk about about you, but apparently this was your first meeting,” she winces, “And it’s safe to say it went to shit,”

Derek gives a huff, but agrees with her.

“So, why don’t we call him over tomorrow?” Erica says, “Bake him a few cupcakes as a peace offering?”

“Peace offering,” Derek deadpans.

“Look, kid’s gonna be here at least eight out of seven times a week. It’s not going to be pretty if you made him leave this place near _tears_ , so, I don’t know. Make him something, apologise, get his number, grab a drink somewhere…” she smirks, “Lock the office door after you both go in,”

 

Derek glares at her.

“I hate you,” he finally says.

Because damn if that isn’t a good ass idea.

 

***

 

So, turns out that Stiles _is_ a regular, as Derek finds out from Isaac. Who smirks when he asks for Stiles’ number.

“Is there something I should know?” Isaac questions, leaning on his mop, looking infuriatingly smug.

“Nope,” Derek says, eyes skimming over the piece of paper with Stiles’ number scrawled onto it in Isaac’s messy writing.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” Derek growls, stuffing the paper into his pocket, making a mental reminder to add it to his phone later. 

“Okay,” Isaac nods, “So, why’d you need his number anyway?”  
“Erica thinks I’m an asshole,” 

Isaac snorts. Derek ignores him. Derek’s ignoring everything these days.

“But I think I got him down or something,”

“Why?”

Derek shuffles his feet, “Because I didn’t know about his- you know,” he looks up at Isaac, “His _mom_ ,” 

Isaac rolls his eyes, “Oh wow, Mr Bond, try to be a little subtle,”

“Huh?”

“Bro, _everyone_ knows about Stiles’ mom,”

“Yeah, not me,” Derek says, turning around and walking back to the kitchen. Why do people just expect him to have up to date measures on every drama happening in Beacon Hills? He’s hasn’t been back for years.

Isaac huffs a laugh, “Really? I couldn’t tell,” he says, sarcasm practically dripping off of his tongue. But then he gives Derek a genuine smile, “He’s a good kid, Derek. Known Jackson since kindergarten. He’s one of Cora’s closest friends. Keeps up the spirit in this place. You two would get on well, you know?”

“Why do you guys think I need to be set up with someone?” Derek mutters, retreating to the back, “You know what happened last time I got involved with a person,”

 

Isaac goes quiet, and for a moment, Derek thinks he’s left, but then he speaks.

“Derek, Stiles isn’t Kate,” he says, “No one is. If you stopped thinking that way, maybe you’d also stop blaming yourself,”

 

Derek closes his eyes, hoping that if he waits long enough, Isaac will actually leave.

And surely, after what seems like eons, he hears the front door close.

 

***

 

Derek’s just pulling out a tray of piping fudge from the oven when he hears the front door open, then close.

“Hello?” Stiles’ voice calls out, “Anyone home?”

Derek practically chucks the tray onto the platform, before running out to the main restaurant. Stiles is standing next to the door frame, looking half perplexed, and half like he wants to walk straight back out.

“Derek?” 

“Uh, hey,” Derek manages to get out, _not_ distracted by Stiles’ unlawful attractiveness. Which is actually pretty impressive. Seeing how Stiles looks right now. Incredible. The word is incredible.

“You’re not, busy, right?” Stiles asks. Derek tilts his head in confusion. He wanted Stiles over, why would he be doing something else? He only wants to do Stiles. Like, not _do_ , Stiles. Just, do things with him. Appropriate things. And inappropriate things. Things such as _doing_ him.

And now Derek’s mind is on doing Stiles, which no thank you, he does _not_ need a boner right now.

Some kind of expression must’ve have shown on Derek’s dazed face though, because Stiles gestures to his hands. Derek looks down at his ovenmitt clad arms, and the apron stretching tightly over his chest. He huffs, and yanks them off.

“I was baking.” Derek explains.

Stiles nods, eyebrows rising slightly.

“I can see that,” he looks at Derek, “You’ve got, um, flour, on your, uh, face,” 

Derek messily wipes at his cheeks, then feels like an idiot when his hands come away with nothing on them. Stiles shakes his head, opening and closing his mouth, like a fish. A very attractive fish. That Derek wants to do.

No, Derek, pay attention.

“No, it’s not, um,” Stiles, hesitates, reaching out, and for a spilt second Derek thinks he’s going to come over and wipe it off for him (total boner material). But instead he just shakes his head, and lets his arm flop back to his side, “You know what, forget it,”

Derek slowly lowers his hand from his face, and then, because he’s awkward and doesn’t know how to interact like a normal person, stuff his fists into his pockets, and scowls his killer scowl. Not at Stiles though, because he doesn’t want to scowl at Stiles. No, he’s scowling at the floor. Because the floor’s mocking him. He can see it.

_Yes Derek, well done. Looking like you want to murder a fucking person is the perfect way of getting into their pants._

An awkward silence settles between them, and Derek can see the tumble weed again.

Thankfully, before this turns into a real life Western film, Stiles clears his throat.

“You, um, you asked for me to drop by,” Stiles says, taking a few cautious steps away from the door, and closer to Derek. His large eyes blink innocently up at him, and Derek feels his heart melt a little. 

“Um, yeah,” he nods shakily, “You- you want to take a seat?” Derek offers, trying to ease the tension out of his shoulders. He knows it’s there. Don’t lie.

Stiles scopes the room, before giving an amused smile, “I’m supposing you mean at the table with food all over it, right?”

And yeah, okay, so maybe Derek called Stiles to come at five thirty on a Sunday, (even though they close at four) and spent an hour and a half cleaning the place, setting it back up, lighting a few incredibly dangerous candles, then blowing them out because even Derek knows how fucked up that is, and making several batches of completely unnecessary bakes. And by several he means a whole fucking table full. And by a whole fucking table full, he means so much that not all of it fit on the massive ass tables they have, so he’s filled half a dozen containers with cookies. Stiles doesn’t need to know that.

But because he’s an idiot, with no self awareness or preservation, and ’majorly lacking in social skills’ (thank you Erica), Derek just nods dumbly.

“I didn’t know what you liked,” he supplies, looking at the pathetically filled table. It’s also mocking him. He can see it. Everything is mocking him. Fuck his life.

“So you made everything?” Stiles finishes for him. Derek glances at him wearily, not sure if that’s pissed him off even more. But Stiles looks intrigued, if not anything else. A large smile spreading across his dotted face, eyes crinkling at the sides and anyone can go fuck themselves if that’s not the most beautiful thing Derek’s ever seen. 

“It’s not _everything_ ,” Derek mumbles, frowning, “I didn’t have enough eggs,”

Stiles bursts out laughing at that, which causes Derek frown more. He really needs to stop frowning. He's too young for frown lines. But Stiles is still laughing and Derek doesn’t know why. 

“Oh shit, did you really use _all_ the eggs?” Stiles hiccups, a giggle still lingering on his tongue.

Derek hunches his shoulders, “I can always buy more tomorrow,”

“Dude, the place opens at _six_ ,” he says, stuffing his hands into his pockets and grinning at Derek, “You’re telling me you’re gonna be able to go the store _before_ then,”

“I’m awake around four,” Derek says, walking towards the table and pulling out a chair, “It won’t be that hard,”

“Jesus, you wake up at _four?”_ Stiles gawks, “That’s around the time I go to _sleep_. What the fuck do you even do that makes you get up at four?”

“I run,” Derek says casually, hoping Stiles takes the bait. And by the look on his, he does. But Derek didn’t say it to impress Stiles. It’s just that “I can’t remember the last time I slept properly because I’m constantly plagued by the nightmares of my family home burning down” isn’t exactly a very good answer. 

“I’m sure you do,” Stiles looks Derek up and down again, but this time, when Derek catches his eye, he blushes, turning away. Derek can’t help feeling smug. Hm, maybe there is some hope for him.

“Sit down,” Derek gestures to the chair, before walking around the table and taking a seat opposite Stiles. Stiles sits, then reaches out for a cupcake, eyes ravenous. His mouth opens wide, and oh God, the _moan_ he makes when he takes a chunk from it nearly sends Derek over the edge. The noises coming out of him are fucking orgasmic and Derek has never heard anything more sensual in his life. 

“Buddy, where have you been all my life,” Stiles practically purrs, and Derek isn’t sure if he’s talking about him or the cake.

“Why don’t we normally get this shit here?” Stiles asks through a mouthful of food, crumbs coating his lips, “Because you’d be selling this stuff like crack. Like, for real, this is what heaven tastes like, isn’t it?”

“Laura usually makes the cakes,” Derek says, trying so desperately not to get distracted when Stiles’ tongue swipes over his lips, wetting them. “But these are mine,”

“Dude,” Stiles gulps down his last bite, “No offence to Laura, but these are at least ten times better,”

Derek feels his cheeks flush, so he looks away and grunts, but can’t suppress the giddy feeling in him. 

“Thanks,” he mutters, peering back up to see Stiles watching him avidly. The boy clears his throat, before reaching out to grab a scone from one of the plates.

“So,” he says, keeping his gaze away from Derek’s eyes, “I’m still not entirely sure why I’m here. If it’s to feed me up with all your delicacies then hey, Christmas came early. But I don’t know how comfortable I’d be with being kept hostage, to be cooked in the oven and shared around later. I mean, as much as this stuff is to die for, I don’t mean it in a literal sense. Or maybe I do, because holy shit that is a good cookie. Fuck dude, what’s in here? Like, fifty million grams of sugar or-”

 

“I’m sorry!” Derek suddenly blurts, to which Stiles stops his blabbering, his eyes finding Derek’s. He blinks innocently ( _again dammit_ ), his head tilted slightly, looking pretty taken aback by the sudden outburst. Derek feels his cheeks flush again, and he looks down, scratching the back of his neck, “Um, I’m sorry about yesterday. I-I didn’t know about your mom or anything, and, uh, I’m sure it looked like I was being an asshole about it, seeing as everyone I’ve spoken to told me I was- but it wasn’t intentional. I- I just didn’t know,” Derek gulps, trying not to freak over Stiles staring at him like he’s grown another head. Or lost it. He probably has. Because he carries on talking, “I’ve been away from here for years and I’ve literally forgotten everything and everyone, and yeah, that’s kind of shitty of me. I mean, I didn’t even know Cora was so far along in her pregnancy or anything. Half the people working here are new, I had no clue Isaac was going out with the Whittemore kid. It’s all been crazy for me and honestly it still is, and I know that that isn’t an excuse to the way I behaved with you so I’m sorry. I hope you forgive me” 

 

And _breathe_.

 

For a second, Derek thinks he’s broke Stiles, because the guy just stares at him, mouth hanging open. Then a bubble of laughter erupts out of his throat, and he starts full on cackling. Like, honest to God cackling. Derek’s never actually heard cackling before. It’s the kind of thing you’d only only read in a book or something. But this _noise_ , the bleated goat noise, coming out of Stiles. It’s a fricken cackle.

“Oh my God,” Stiles splutters, his shoulders shaking so much that Derek thinks they’re going to fall off , “You’re telling me you set all this up to say you were _sorry_?”

Derek raises an eyebrow, folding his arms defensively across his chest.

“Oh, oh my God,” Stiles is still laughing, his arm clutching his side. Derek can’t find the humour in it all. 

“It’s not funny,” Derek mutters, glaring at Stiles. That only seems to set him more, though. His laugh gets louder, more bold. 

“I-I’m sorry Derek,” Stiles wheezes, “But yes it _is_ ,”

“I don’t find it funny,”

“That’s because you’re dead inside,” Stiles grins, over dramatically wiping a non-existent tear away from his face, “But boy, can you make a guy laugh. Shit, I think I broke something,” 

He looks over, eyes shining, “I’ve not laughed that hard in a while,”

Derek ignores the way Stiles’ smile makes his stomach flip, and maintains his poker face. “I still don’t see what was so utterly hilarious,” 

Was that rude? It sounded rude. But Stiles hasn’t noticed, or doesn’t care, because he carries on like Derek didn’t even say anything.

“Derek,” Stiles starts, “You do realise I came in to your shop, -that you don’t even work in, may I add- and asked you to bake me a pie that you’d _never_ heard of, in one week. Dude, you had every fucking right in the book to say you couldn’t do it. That’s the fucking normal response, bro!” 

Stiles throws his arms in the air, gesturing wildly, “But this, _this_ , this is proposal shit, dude. You fucking called me after hours, wasted all the eggs baking me shit, just to say you were sorry that you couldn’t make me my pie,” Stiles shakes his head, a small smile forming on his face, “I’d be an asshole to say anything other than, ‘Man, you are the most amazing human being on this earth’,”

 

And yeah, that’s probably around the exact moment Derek’s brain implodes. Because Stiles is looking at him like he just saved a baby from a burning building or something. His eyes, his diamond encrusted eyed, are glowing, and Derek has never felt so passionately about a person’s face before. He could wax fucking poetry about it, writing sonnets, serenade to it. 

Instead he just drops his head, because he doesn’t deserve to appreciate Stiles’ beauty. Or any of the shit Stiles’ is saying to him. The guy doesn’t even know Derek. He’s liking what he sees now, but soon he’ll find out exactly what Derek’s done, what happened, and he wont want anything to do with him. Quite right to. Derek wouldn’t want anything to do with himself either.

“You’re just saying that now,” Derek raises his head, meets Stiles’ piqued gaze, “But you don’t know me Stiles,”

“Uh, actually,” Stiles chuckles nervously, running a hand through his hair, “I know quite a lot about you,”

“From the fire?” Derek asks, and he can hear the apprehension in his voice. It’s obvious now- Stiles recognises him from the paper or something. He would do. It was all over Beacon Hills. The Hale house fire.

“Yeah, from the fire,” Stiles admits, “But not just that,”

He looks around nervously, before his eyes fall on the messy set up of photo frames lining the wall to their left. Derek follows his gaze. 

 

His family’s been running this bakery for generations, and pictures from over the years plaster it’s walls. He sees his grandparents when they were young, then his own parents, then him and his sisters. Babies in pushchairs, toddlers in sandpits, children running around, caked in mud. A scrawny, fourteen year old Derek, holding a baseball bat, laughing at something Peter’s saying. He’s hanging onto his mom’s arm, who's looking fondly at the two of them, her other hand clutching his dad’s shoulder. His dad has his arm snaked around her waist. Laura’s next to him, Cora hoisted high on her shoulders, both sticking their tongues out at the camera. Ethan and Aiden are sat at the front, the two nestled in his aunt’s lap. She’s holding them close, her chin resting atop their bristled heads. That’s the last picture of all of them before the fire.

The rest are only of Laura, Cora and Peter. There’s one of all of them, at Boyd and Erica’s wedding, around three years ago maybe. Derek came down to Beacon Hills for that, of course. And needlessly, he enjoyed himself. There’s another of Derek and Boyd, both drunk at Boyd’s bachelor party. Derek’s lost his shirt, only a tie strung around his neck, clinking a bottle of beer with Boyd (don’t ask him, because there’s not one moment of that night he can remember clearly). He’s honestly not too sure why Laura even put that photo up, considering he’s half naked and completely wasted, but she did. Safe to say that was the last time he got drunk. He doesn’t even know _why_ he’s drunk in the first place. Derek barely touches alcohol, forget consuming enough to get pissed. He’s positive Boyd did some weird voodoo shit on him. Only plausible explanation.

And that’s all there is. It’s the most up to date photo of Derek on the wall. 

 

“I couldn’t resist asking about the devilishly handsome stranger in that picture,” Stiles motions to the wedding photo, then the drunk one, biting his lip, “And once I found out who you were, it was all questions, questions, questions,” He looks down at the floor, an almost shy expression forming, “I know more about you than I do my best friend. But it’s all second hand information,” he peers over at Derek, and smirks, “I’m pretty sure I need some first hand stuff too,”

Derek nods, knowing that there’s no point in even attempting to talk, because only gibberish would come out of his mouth.

“So…” Stiles drawls, propping his elbows back onto the table and resting on his clasped hands, a mischievous glint in his eye, “What are your shifts?”

“My shifts?”

“You know,” Stiles shrugs casually, but Derek can spot the mirth edging his look, “What days do you work here? There no point in me popping by to see the guy I’ve been pining over for the past three years and he’s not even there. That would be a total downer. Or maybe I do come in, expecting you to be off, and you’re there. Only I’m looking total ratchet, and send you running back to New York, because you can’t stand my hideous face,”

“You don’ have a hideous face,” Derek blurts. Then his brain starts functioning, and he groans because, _hey_ , he realises what he’s just said. 

“I don’t?” Stiles asks, looking far too amused for Derek’s liking.

“No,” Derek shakes his head, “You don’t,”

“Okay,” Stiles murmurs thoughtfully, “What kind of face do I have then?”

“A-a nice one?” Derek says, but it comes out more of a question than a statement.

“Alright,” Stiles nods, “I can work with nice. It’s no devilishly handsome, but it’ll do” 

He then winks, and-and yep. That’s it. That is definitely Derek’s soul packing its bags and leaving him.

 

***

 

Stiles is stepping out the door, illuminated by the yellow glow of the streetlamp. He’s carrying three bags of containers, each filled with a heart attack in a box (Stiles’ words, not Derek’s) over to his Jeep. Derek watches as Stiles opens the passenger door, stuffing the bags inside, and tries not to do the stalker-stare as Stiles’ shirt rides up when he reaches down, exposing a sliver of perfectly, milky pale skin. 

Oh God, the things Derek could do to that. Bite it, bruise it, kiss it. He’d brand himself onto it, staining the flawless skin with his mark, making sure everyone knew Stiles was his. Leaving huge, dark hickeys over that chest, covering his body with every inch of-

“Derek?” Stiles snaps Derek out of his haze, “You okay? Looked pretty into something, there,”

“Fine,” Derek says a little too quickly to be normal, “Just, thinking about work,”

“Uh hu,” Stiles muses, “I’m sure you were,”

Derek glares at him, but Stiles just grins, leaning against the doorframe. And is it Derek or are they a lot closer than they were before?  
“So, uh, you said you worked everyday but Friday, right?” Stiles says softly, fingers reaching out to gently brush Derek’s sleeve.

“Yeah,” Derek gulps, trying to calm his heart thumping in his chest.

“Then, I’m guessing if I came by tomorrow, you’d be in,”

“I’d be in,” Derek affirms. Or echoes. He’s not sure right now. Because Stiles is running his whole fucking hand up and down Derek’s arm.

“Great,” Stiles says, “I’ll drop by,”

“I’ll be there,” Derek replies.

Stiles breathes out, and for a second, Derek’s pretty sure his grip tightens on Derek’s bicep. But then he steps away, creating way too much space between them.

“Well, then,” Stiles glances back to his Jeep, “I should probably head out. It’s late,”

“Yeah,” Derek agrees, hoping he doesn’t sound too disappointed, “You should,”

“I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow,” Derek choruses. 

But before Derek turns around to go inside, Stiles walks up to him again. He leans in, and holy shit, is Stiles going to kiss him? No, he’s reaching up. Derek holds his breath as Stiles swipes at the tip of Derek’s nose, smiling. He slowly lowers his arm, and Derek is truly surprised his heart hasn’t pumped right out of his rib cage, and through his chest.

“That was where the flour was,” Stiles whispers, so quiet Derek almost doesn’t hear him.

 

Then he’s strolling to his Jeep, hands stuffed into his pockets, whistling some tune of sorts. It sounds like the Jersey Boys.

 

 _Shit_ , Derek thinks, as Stiles hops into the driver’s seat, giving a small wave.

 

_I’m fucked._

**Author's Note:**

> ....................  
>  Yah or nah?  
> Idk  
> The comment box is always open! Kudos welcome too ;))))
> 
>  
> 
> [ Come and tumble with me fren](http://rogue-wizard.tumblr.com)


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